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Updated: May 5, 2025
Ditte glanced at her mother, who stood with her back to her. Then she nodded her head eagerly. Lars Peter drank half of his coffee, put some more sugar in the cup, and handed it to the child. Sörine was dressing by the fireplace. "Now keep quiet," said she, "while I tell you what to do. There's flour and milk for you to make pancakes for dinner; but don't dare to put an egg in."
"My ears are burning," she often said, "maybe 'tis your mother talking of us." Sörine certainly did talk of them in those days. Ditte was now old enough to make herself useful; her mother would not mind having her home to look after the little ones. "She's nearly nine years old now and we'll have to take her sooner or later," she explained.
"Then you belong to a grand family," said the baker's wife, laying the loaf of bread on the counter without realizing that the child had already had her weekly loaf, so taken up was she with the news. And Ditte, who was even more so, seized the bread and ran. Not until she was halfway home did she remember what she ought to have confessed; it was too late then.
Maren was so terrified by the consequence of her act, that she never thought of offering help. She tore down the shawls from the fire and ran out, dragging the child after her. It was not until they reached the last house in the hamlet, the lifeboat shed, that she stopped to wrap themselves up. Ditte still shook. "Did you kill her?" asked she. The old woman started, alarmed at the word.
It was some time since she had visited her, and she had an overpowering longing for Granny. She crept out of bed and put on her shoes. Her mother raised herself; "Where're you going?" "Just going outside," answered Ditte faintly. "Put a skirt on, it's very cold," said Lars Peter "we might just as well have kept the new piece of furniture in here," he growled shortly afterwards.
She did not answer. The wife came in. "I don't know what we're to do," said he, "she's afraid to go home. The stepfather can't be very good to her." Ditte turned sharply towards him. "I want to go home to Lars Peter," she said, sobbing.
It was worst of all when hearing her speak lovingly about the old woman. But the thought of his grief stopped her. He went about now like a great child, seeing nothing, and was more than ever in love with Sörine; he was overjoyed by the change for the better. Ditte and the others loved him as never before.
Her hair had grown, and allowed itself the luxury of curling over her forehead, and her chin was soft and round. No-one could say she was pretty, but her eyes were beautiful always on the alert, watching for something useful to do. Her hands were red and rough she had not yet learned how to take care of them. Ditte had finished in the kitchen, and went into the living room.
But this would have reflected on her stepfather, and her sense of justice rebelled against this. Then too the thought of her little brothers and sisters kept her back; what would become of them if she left? She remained and took up a definite position towards her mother. Sörine was kind and considerate to her, so much so that it was almost painful, but Ditte pretended not to notice it.
Every night when Granny undressed, Ditte was equally astonished at seeing her take off skirt after skirt, getting thinner and thinner until, as if by witchcraft, nothing was left of the fat grandmother but a skeleton, a withered little crone, who wheezed like the leaky bellows by the fireplace. They looked forward to the day when the new father would come and fetch them to the wedding.
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